EPITAPH. GREATER than Colon, name renown'd In famed Discovery's rolls, EPIGRAM. "PREPARE to meet the King of Terrors," cried To prayerless Want, his plunderer ferret-eyed : "I am the King of Terrors," Want replied.+ But Dickens will not thank us for doing him more than justice. Let it not be forgotten that he had in Bulwer a precursor worthy of him; nor let the class whom that precursor has so highly honoured in being one of them, fail to add four words to the question asked by one of his humble characters: "If little Paul should be scragged?" Who is to blame! + Colonel Thompson. COLONEL THOMPSON IN PALACE YARD. WHO is that small Napoleon-featured pleader? The sage, whose metaphors are demonstrations; The bard, whose music yet shall teach all nations That ignorance is want, war, waste, and treason; Thompson, the Hadyn and Molière of reason. Clear-voiced as evening's throstle, o'er the booming Of conscious forests heard when storms are coming, He stills these thousands, like a people's leader. PELHAM. WE spoke of Bulwer. In style and thought." 66 "He was great Could he create? He could both execute and plan." His book was making then a stir, And a still youth beside us sate. And, placid-eyed, the youth replied, "He is a Gentleman." INSCRIPTION. HERE lies the man who stripp'd Sin bare, ANN. THE broken heart, that loves in vain, Then, greet the shy morn's treacherous glow, Thou pale autumnal blossom, Ere chill November's sleet and snow Beat on thy bosom ! So, Ann still loved: it was her doom To love, in shame and sorrow: Charles came no more! but "He will come," Oh, yet for her, deep bliss remain'd! She dream'd he came, and kiss'd her! And, in that hour, the angels gain'd Another sister. EPIGRAM. SAID Death to Pol Sly, "Put no rum in thy tea, WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL IN DARTFIELD CHURCHYARD. MAN draws his fleeting breath . In doubt and fear, Though life for ever blooms, And smiling ev'n on tombs, Bids beauty say to death, "What dost thou here?" EPIGRAM. THE Scoundrel's virtues Candid takes on trust, But sifts for good men's faults their very dust. STEAM IN THE DESERT. "GOD made all nations of one blood," The shipless have no pen! What deed sublime by them is wrought? What type have they of speech or thought, What soul-ennobled page? No record tells their tale of pain! Th' Unwritten History of Cain Is theirs, from age to age. Steam!-if the nations grow not old Why dost not thou thy banner shake O'er sealess, streamless lands, and make |